


Of Monsters and Men

by DanteLUPINE



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Half-orc, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 10:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanteLUPINE/pseuds/DanteLUPINE
Summary: Rocky Blackfriar is a man of many talents. He's knowledgeable and strong and dependable, but he tends to hire out his skills to very particular causes. Being a half-orc, he's endured no small amount of discrimination growing up, and even the circumstances of his birth perpetuate stereotypes of violence, but he carries on with the distinct intent of helping those he comes in contact with.When he accepts a job to hunt a werewolf that's committed a series of odd murders, Rocky begins his investigation with some good old fashioned introspection.





	Of Monsters and Men

**Author's Note:**

> This exercise was written as a way to explore actions and habits developed by my character during the homebrew campaign being run by my good friend. If there are questions or comments, I would be happy to answer them.

Rocky frowned as he kicked yet another pebble clattering into the darkness. The humid depths of the cave yawned before him, surprisingly wide as he passed limestone stalagmites that dripped with moisture, appearing to almost sweat peculiarly under the effects of his night vision. It was the best distraction he had at the moment aside from his periodic sighs of boredom—he had grown tired of wiping sweat and condensation from his brow and the shaved sides of his head as he’d trekked for the better part of two hours deeper and deeper, away from the light of the waxing moon that was now far behind and above him.  
The clammy atmosphere enforced a slow and even pace as it caused Rocky’s cloak to cling damply to his arms, coupled with the weight of his pack and warhammer slung over his back. Because the half-orc made no habit of traversing caves, he considered the fact that he could neither hear nor see any signs of life were good things; the only sound aside from his breathing and the scrape of his boots over the uneven ground was that of the burbling, deep-bedded stream he followed deeper into the cave. So long as his mark remained unaware of his presence, Rocky would likely be able to finish the mission and be on his way to civilization in another hour.  
The reminder brought Rocky’s train of thought back to the mission he’d accepted: officially, a werewolf hunt. It wasn’t his usual fare, not that he was unused to fighting off creatures of the night. No, what had caught Rocky’s eye was the fact that apparently one werewolf was responsible for the brutal murders in the town some day or so’s travel back. He didn’t normally accept missions from the Adventurer’s Guild if he didn’t have a party (or some form of reliable backup) but when he’d ventured a pass at the local Opportune chapter for information, and learned that the Thieves Guild had been waiting vainly for information about a pack before posting the job for its members, he’d taken the job for himself. He knew something was off with the situation, and Rocky was keen on listening to his instincts as they nagged in the pit of his stomach, as they were rarely less than an educated guess.  
Rocky’s dreams after accepting the request, had been mildly less helpful and slightly more foreboding in preparing him for the werewolf hunt than his hunches. Whatever his faith had become in the several years since being excommunicated, his monastic upbringing in the halls of the Voidseer had trained him in just that. Sure, dreaming wasn’t something one commanded, and sure, he didn’t necessarily see things he wanted, but occasionally, he was able to get a good glimpse at something important. He was certain that his dream the previous night, which had morbidly focused on the caved skull of his lycanthrope pursuit, quantified as important.  
As he walked, the sound of crashing water met his ears, and he followed the stream for another quarter-hour until he stood frowning over the edge of a sinkhole where at the bottom, he presumed, the water pooled. Rocky walked around the sinkhole before crouching down with narrowed eyes to inspect the cavern the stream was pouring into.  
In the shades of gray and shadow his night vision provided, the cavern opened beneath Rocky, so big that he couldn’t see the ends of it in any direction. The cenote pooled directly under the sinkhole; judging by the fact that the cavern wasn’t flooded, it was likely that there were tunnels, or other tributaries that the cenote was diverting itself into, if Rocky’s recollection of the books he’d read during his last stay in Zamrud was accurate.  
More importantly, though, was the campfire whose orange glare caught his eyes some distance from the banks and the figure huddled in the flickering orange light it provided. Facing as it was, towards the campfire and away from the torrential downpour so that it cast long shadows behind it, it was impossible for Rocky to identify the figure; even so, there were only so many people willing to traverse miles into underground caves and call those places home. More importantly, he knew that there was no way for him to descend into the cavern without alerting whoever waited down below.  
Realistically, there weren’t many options for the half-orc to debate, so it didn’t take long for him to shrug off his pack and set it aside. With a sigh of disappointment at the prospect of walking through the cave to retrieve his bag, he unclasped his cloak, pocketing the medallion that held it on, before unslinging his warhammer and wrapping its head in the cloak’s gossamer black fabric. Gripping the hammer so that the adze was aligned with his wrist and forearm while his fingers gripped below the neck, Rocky plopped down on the rim of the sinkhole so that his legs dangled over the water far below and crossed his arms over his chest. With a grunt and a scoot, he was into open air.  
Rocky’s long braided hair flowed out behind him as he fell and he clenched his eyes shut, inhaling deeply in preparation for splashdown. The water that surrounded him was surprisingly cold, briefly shocking the half-orc as he sank, clutching his hammer as he descended underwater.  
Swimming had never been Rocky’s favorite pastime, nor an activity he actually had much time or interest in practicing. He supposed he was lucky that there were other ways to practice holding one’s breath, because as he opened his eyes in the amazingly clear water, he opted to take a moment to commit the sight of the clear, rippling current in its shades of gray and the stony world beyond it to his memory.  
It didn’t take long for the figure from the fire to approach the shore, and Rocky let loose a steady torrent of bubbles to signal his impending breach. He had no need to embellish a clumsy rise to the surface: his encumbered hand and already unsteady tread of water made it so that by the time his head broke the water, he was gasping for breath. When Rocky opened his eyes, unsteadily treading against the current, he quickly found himself on the receiving end of a glare delivered by a rather unhappy-looking bugbear.  
“Funny running into someone else here,” Rocky called, pushing himself towards the shore and the frowning man that stood there. He didn’t have much confidence that the friendliness he pushed into his voice would help but he smiled up at the other man as he hoisted himself up onto his hands and knees on the damp strand. “I wasn’t really expecting to run into another adventurer down here.”  
“Ain’t an adventurer. What’re you doing exploring caves like this?” The bugbear’s reply was gruff and even, his voice strong and resonant against the torrent of water that echoed in the cave.  
Rising to his full height, Rocky found himself only several inches shorter than the bugbear. The taller man was shirtless, and covered in thick hair that framed much of his upper body save for an odd portion spanning from his clavicle down to his waist; although Rocky couldn’t distinguish any colors with the fire silhouetting him as it was, his cursory glance as he rose still revealed a number of crisscrossing scars.  
“Oh, you know,” Rocky shrugged. “Walking. Swimming.”  
“Poorly,” the bugbear interjected, provoking a genuinely embarrassed laugh from Rocky.  
“Oh, yeah, I don’t have much practice with it,” he explained, glancing around the open cavern. From his new vantage point beside the cenote, he could see the primary offshoot stream running with the slope of the cavern floor. “I wasn’t really prepared to dive in order to keep going deeper.”  
The bugbear made no attempt to disguise his evaluation of Rocky, pointing to the half-orc’s hammer after finishing his appraisal. “Seem prepared for something.”  
“Well, you never know what sort of unfriendlies lurk around in caves,” Rocky said, pointedly looking around the bugbear. “Not to be rude, though, but would it be okay if we continued this over by your fire? The water’s surprisingly cold.”  
As the taller man continued to glare at him, Rocky was unsure the bugbear would agree. Eventually, though, he grunted, just barely audible over the crashing water, and turned to lead the way back to the fire.  
“Could I ask your name, by the way?” Rocky asked as he followed the bugbear the short distance away from the cenote. As they drew closer, it became more apparent that the fire was not a spur-of-the-moment campsite, as it was outfitted with a ready supply of firewood some distance away, as well as dried out logs on either side so that the bugbear could watch, depending on where he sat, either the waterfall or the larger cave as it expanded into the distance. Even the fire’s placement was smart, far enough from the stream, now a river, that its winding angle kept spray from reaching the campsite but that the fifteen-foot walk was no inconvenience when water was needed.  
The bugbear looked up at him from where he’d reclaimed his seat on the log so that he faced away from the water. “Why do you need to know that?”  
Rocky strolled to the other side of the fire, peeling off his wet shirt before setting it on the log beside him. “I just thought it’d be more comfortable knowing the name of the man I’m bonding half-naked with. My name’s Rochi, by the way. Friends call me Rocky.”  
The bugbear frowned once again, and thanks to the color afforded by the light of the fire between them, Rocky could make out the other man’s shockingly green eyes.  
“Can’t imagine you have many people calling you Rocky, then,” he answered gruffly. “You talk too much.”  
Rocky nodded, laying his hammer across his knees while he unwrapped his cloak from its head and lay that aside to dry as well. “It’s a defense mechanism. Many people talk when they’re nervous.”  
The bugbear snorted, raising one furry brow. “Seem pretty damn confident to me, strutting up to a stranger after diving into a sinkhole. How old are you, anyway?”  
“I’m 22. Daring feats of physical prowess don’t mean much; I couldn’t do my job without being able to take chances,” Rocky responded quickly, a smile spreading his face as the bugbear rolled his eyes. “But only an idiot would actually trust a stranger who won’t even tell his name.”  
Another quiet settled over the pair as either man quietly assessed the other, in which Rocky found much more comfortable than the barbed conversation that they engaged in. His eyes were drawn to the cave around him while he drummed his fingers against the head of his hammer. The cave was surprisingly unremarkable: unlike the upper level, there were no stalagmites that he could see, even in the gray distance he had to turn his head to see, and though surprisingly wide, its downward slope and lack of apparent exits anywhere within sight meant that there was likely only one, and much further downstream.  
A heavy sigh brought Rocky’s attention away from the fire that had quickly warmed his skin and back to the man across from him, and when he opened his mouth to speak, the bugbear cut him off. “You said if I gave you my name, you’d say what the hell you were looking for in here?” When the half-orc nodded, he continued. “Korrel.”  
“Well, Korrel,” Rocky said, carefully enunciating the name; the bugbear’s irritation was plain as he glowered at the sound. “I’m looking for a werewolf.”  
Korrel leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and growled over the fire at Rocky. “Hunting werewolves, ain’t that a stupid way to die. What makes you think you’ll find a pack of werewolves in here?”  
Rocky stood, allowing gravity to pull the head of his hammer to the ground in a casual, non-threatening position though it was near enough to grab if necessary. “I didn’t say I was hunting a pack; I’m only looking for one.”  
“How long have you been hunting him? What are you gonna do when you find him?” Korrel’s emerald eyes tracked Rocky as he moved, and his furrowed brow now seemed to show confusion, though it could have been caused by the shadows cast by the fire in Rocky’s new vantage.  
“Just a day or two, it’s a long walk from the town,” Rocky answered. “I was hoping they’d be up for a conversation, actually. Like you said, Korrel, trying to fight a werewolf on my own would be a stupid way to die.”  
The bugbear seemed to shiver at the sound of his name, and finally he lifted his head to meet Rocky’s eyes. “And if he wants to be left alone?”  
Rocky sighed, though he retained his upright posture, and rested his hands on the base of his hammer’s handle. He felt a slight tugging in his stomach, though he couldn’t define where it was pulling to or from. “I just want to discuss… I only need to ask about the family they murdered.”  
“Why are you fucking around?” The bugbear sprang across the fire with a shout, narrowing missing Rocky as the half-orc dove away. Rocky rolled with his momentum to bring himself into a kneeling position, watching as Korrel struck the hard limestone cave floor with a fist.  
“Why are you fucking around?” Korrel repeated, his animalistic growl far roaring with the waterfall that Rocky had quickly blocked out. His body wracked and spasmed and Rocky grimaced at the uncomfortably noticeable sound of breaking bones as the Korrel’s did just that to more easily facilitate the hunting of prey and rending of flesh. After several moments of pained grunting, when he stood, Rocky saw that the wolf’s face had warped itself in a surprisingly natural way to facilitate his canid transformation: as a bugbear, he’d already possessed a slightly inhuman visage with a broad, padded nose and protruding jaw and large, sharp ears placed on either side of his head, all of it almost entirely covered in dark hair. Now with a fully wolfish muzzle that had narrowed as it lengthened, teeth that were as long as Rocky’s fingers, and conical ears that had moved to the top of Korrel’s head and were swiveled to face the half-orc; the only feature that hadn’t changed with his transformation was his deep green eyes that intensely followed Rocky’s every minute movement. The furry ensemble was completed with the tail that waved slowly behind him. All of the wolf, so far as Rocky could tell since Korrel’s ratty pants had survived the change, was now covered in dark fur.  
“I can end this quick. No one’s gotta know,” he mumbled through a row of daggers that glimmered yellow and orange in the firelight.  
“Killing me won’t stop the people who want to hurt you, Korrel. You know as well as I do that they’re on their way.” From his knees, Rocky lifted his hands in a placating gesture, speaking quietly as he rose to his feet. Another brief yank in his gut begged him to brace himself. “I just want to know what happened; I want to know if I can help.”  
The werewolf shivered again, and pounced for Rocky once more, who again rolled away from the hulking mass of muscle and fur and teeth that sailed past him. As Rocky pushed himself to stand, finding himself just several feet adjacent to where Korrel had been sitting just moments ago, the werewolf growled again. “Monsters don’t get diplomacy.”  
Rocky again lifted his hands to show Korrel, as much as the other man was paying attention to him, that he meant no harm, all the while inching back towards the log seat, hoping to place the campfire between them once more, or at the very least get nearer to the river.  
“You’re right, monsters don’t get diplomacy,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on Korrel’s angry muzzle as he slowly backed away, aware that the tugging in his stomach was absent. “But monsters also don’t need a reason to kill, Korrel. I know that if you really wanted to kill me, I’d be dead right now; you wouldn’t have even let me out of the water.”  
Korrel charged Rocky on all fours, and when Rocky darted to his left around the campfire, the werewolf loped after him, easily closing distance. The scrape of the wolf’s claws on limestone, the labored breathing of an enraged animal gaining on him reached Rocky’s ears and when he dove for his warhammer, twisting in the air the instant his hands gripped its handle, he was unsurprised to see that the great wolf that Korrel had become was nearly upon him.  
Rocky’s head smacked against the ground as he hit it, and he had only a moment to react and lift his hammer defensively as Korrel crashed down atop him, though it did little to help. The werewolf’s crushing weight slammed down on his hammer, nearly causing Rocky’s arms to buckle and let Korrel crush him outright. As it was, the werewolf bore down on it with all of his weight, gripping the handle between Rocky’s own hands and slathering at the mouth as he snarled and swore.  
“How about I kill you now?” Korrel’s eyes held Rocky’s, mere inches away from his own while hot spittle dripped onto the half-orc’s face. “What if I show you what a monster is?”  
Rocky grunted, pushing vainly against the impossible weight of the werewolf bearing down on him. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Korrel.”  
The throbbing pain in Rocky’s skull was nothing compared to the wracking, encompass-ing hurt of a quick transformation. The half-orc’s bones broke and stretched themselves out and Rocky, eyes clenched shut, almost lost consciousness from the pain and strain of holding up Korrel’s full weight. The transformation lasted only several seconds, but the deep throbbing in his bones as his face lengthened and his legs broke and reknit themselves made it seem to last forever.  
When he opened his eyes, Korrel’s green gaze was locked on him, though he hadn’t let up his weight. “You’re a monster, too.”  
“No,” Rocky responded, a growl growing in his throat while the anxiety in his stomach settled. His newfound strength, coupled with Korrel’s hesitant confusion allowed Rocky to shove his hammer up, pushing Korrel away from him and affording him a gain in leverage. With the space he’d bought, Rocky brought his legs up between himself and the larger werewolf, pressing his now uncomfortably boot-clad paws up into Korrel’s stomach. “I’m not.”  
While Korrel scrabbled in an attempt to regain balance, Rocky pushed off, launching the heavy werewolf up and over him. The larger werewolf soared away before landing with a heavy thud on the limestone floor, and Rocky rolled onto his side, quickly jumping to his feet to cautiously approach him.  
“What the fuck do you want with me?” By the time Rocky had closed the distance, Korrel was already clambering onto all fours and preparing to charge him again, letting loose a roaring growl. “Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”  
“I told you what I wanted.” Rocky stopped several feet away from Korrel. He gripped his hammer nonthreateningly, this time in a bar against his knees thanks to his disproportionately long arms. His tail hung limply behind him as he looked down on Korrel. “I’m not even here because you’re a werewolf”  
Korrel leapt forward, and Rocky grimaced stepped out of the way. Twisting the hammer as he lifted, Rocky brought it down in an arc into Korrel’s side, knocking the breath out of him and sending the heavy lycanthrope sprawling into the river. An increase of eight inches in arm length made for a large increase in muscle, Rocky had learned, and he was certain, Korrel was realizing.  
Rocky watched Korrel fight the current for a moment before breaking the water’s surface, and unsteadily making his way toward the shore. When he tossed himself up onto the limestone riverbed, Rocky was waiting for him.  
“Fuckin broke my ribs,” Korrel wheezed as water sopped from his pelt. There was a slight whistle when he spoke, that set Rocky’s pointed ears twitching, suggesting a punctured lung as well. “You fuckin get off on this?”  
Rocky shook his head, sighing. “I can assure you, I don’t. I was just hoping to help you.”  
Korrel grimaced, clutching his midsection as he lay out on his back, staring up at Rocky. “Who the fuck died and made you some sort of judicator?”  
The long-limbed werewolf was quiet for a moment as he looked over Korrel. If he left the bugbear alone to lick his wounds, he’d certainly heal within a matter of days; if he left him be, though, a party of adventurers was certain to show up eventually and do what he hadn’t, and perhaps at sizable loss considering Korrel had gone easy on Rocky in the beginning, and he certainly wouldn’t make that mistake again.  
“You called me a monster, too,” Rocky said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe I’m a monster, but I don’t think you are, either. If I’m right, you only need help. If I’m wrong, then...” He hefted his hammer.  
Korrel was silent for a long moment, seeming to make up his mind as he coughed up something dark into a clawed hand. “They took our mines, kid. Mines we’d been working for generations, our only form of security against their types. They took em and made us work in em for next to no profit.”  
“They shut them down after you murdered the mayor’s family,” Rocky said. He noted that Korrel’s left paw was still submerged in the cold river. “You’ve been hiding in this cave for almost two months.”  
“Those mines were my home on full moons, whenever I felt like I was losing control…” Korrel rolled his eyes. “I’d kill them all again if it meant my people would prosper again.”  
“But why did you do it?”  
Korrel answered quickly. “I had the power to make things better, in my own way.”  
Rocky nodded, lifting his hammer over his head. “For what it counts, I don’t think that makes you a monster. However, I can’t say that others would think the same.”  
He shut his eyes tight and brought his hammer down hard in three precise strikes, like a steel driver making room for explosives. Shutting his eyes didn’t help since he’d already dreamed the aftermath of his work, and unlike any honest working man, though, Rocky’s job was over quickly. 

Rocky sighed as he stepped into the growing light of dawn. His patchwork fur caught the light as he left the dank, meandering cave behind him and surveyed the landscape in the burgeoning light. The cave’s exit sat atop a steep incline, and though the river would serve an easy marker to where he needed be going as he climbed the mountain back to the cave’s entrance, carrying a corpse the entire way to retrieve his pack would make it far less enjoyable. He inhaled deeply, relishing the flood of outdoor scents that rid his clouded head of sharp copper and gore-smell.  
Carefully, he eased the corpse off his back and onto the ground, sighing in relief as he stretched, palms flat against his lower back. He inspected the body for a moment, noticing the pretty brindle of its fur in the growing light and how it contrasted with his own distinctly matte colors. He was stricken again with, if not respect, understanding for the bugbear’s actions. With a quiet huff, he returned the corpse to his back, looping its arms over his shoulders and his own under its thighs, careful that its limp tail didn’t make too much contact with his own. He’d already tied his cloak securely around the corpse’s head, to ensure that no gore dripped down over his shoulder while he lumbered about with the four-hundred-pound body, and so he took off at a jog.  
He would make sure that the body was taken care of, reward be damned. Burying it would take time, especially as he had no shovel, but he didn’t mind that, he’d gotten something out of the venture after all. He’d need to find a good spot away from the river, but that wouldn’t be too difficult. Monsters couldn’t run free and wreak havoc, but when anyone could be a monster, sometimes people just needed help to keep from taking a plunge. Sometimes a man just needed a shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> One note I remembered about this is that it would be extremely beneficial to let the readers know that Rocky's class is the homebrew class known as "warrior-seer", found here https://homebrewery.naturalcrit.com/share/HktIRhX8-. As these explorations continue, I'll keep adding meta notes like this at the end.


End file.
